Working With Undone Tasks

The Temple pond has frozen over. Nearby stands one large planter that should have been moved to the shelter of the garage long ago. I’m hoping it has not already cracked from the freezing of its wet soil. Again today, I vow to roll the hand-truck down and take it to the safety of the garage. It’s a ten-minute task that has been on ‘my list’ for weeks. Today, I also want to get some exercise, use the aging vegetables in the refrigerator before they disintegrate, go through the piles of paper on my desk and try to install the honeycomb shades whose ‘easy installation’ defeated me yesterday. It would be good to go shopping, make notes for a sermon I’m preaching in January and begin the campaign to raise money to buy a new snow-blower for the Temple. I’m sure there will be enough time……

Our lives are filled with things to do—things we should do, things we could do—things we want to do, things we don’t want to do. There are always too many. Sometimes, when contemplating the multitude that surrounds me, I feel beleaguered and overwhelmed. But once I had a waking dream of walking into the middle of a ballroom. Lovely music was playing and all the things of my life were in a circle around me. I was happy to see them all and I got to choose whom I wanted to dance with. As I slowly turned around, encountering all the things I could and should do, I might do and must do, I was able to notice and act on what called to me. I danced for a while with one, then gracefully moved onto the next.

This was a new possibility—that the choice was up to me and that I could and should use my intuition to choose. This contradicted my default association with choosing whom to dance with: all the ones I don’t choose will be disappointed and angry. From this perspective I must choose everything and everyone at the same time. But choosing everything at once means standing frozen in the middle. Or choosing everything means rushing from one to the next in sequential dissatisfaction and agitation.

What if (and this appears to be my new mantra – see yesterday’s poem) I really did get to choose? And it was just fine?

I’m reminded of Marshall Rosenberg’s insistence on the power of owning the power of our choices. Part of the lovely framework he calls Nonviolent Communication is making sure that we are consciously owning our responsibility for doing what we are doing.

We often use the language of ‘have to.’ We might say ‘I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, but I had to to make breakfast for my family.’ While this may feel accurate, it hides a deeper truth and there is a cost in using this language. ‘Have to’ is the language of resentment and blame. Rosenberg doesn’t deny there are consequences to our actions and non-actions, but he insists that, even when the choices are unappealing, we are still choosing and that owning the power of our choosing is essential in a healthy and fulfilling life.

Rosenberg went so far as to make a list of all the things he didn’t want to do and then committed to find some way to have someone else do it, find a reason that he really did want to do it, or simply not do it. Going back to the example of getting out of bed to make breakfast for the family, you actually have many choices. You could start a rotation with all the members of your family that are competent to make breakfast. Or you could remember how much you love nourishing your family and giving them all a good start as they begin their days and choose to continue. Or you could announce that you are no longer taking responsibility for their morning meal. These are just a few of the choices available to you. The important thing to remember is that they are all your choices.

No one is forcing you to do what you are doing. Using the language of ‘have to’ is inaccurate and creates a greater sense of powerlessness that diminishes the natural dignity of our lives. Mary Oliver says: ‘Tell me, how is it you will spend your one wild and precious life?’ And we spend our lives moment by moment. Most are not grand and flashy, but these moment by moment choices are how a life is lived—how we spend our lives.

I wonder what I will choose today? Going out in the bracing cold of the morning for the satisfaction of tending to the garden and taking care of the beautiful things of my life is beginning to sound more and more attractive. Who knows, maybe the planter will finally reach the shelter of the garage…

Just Wondering

What if:
you are already
who you dream
of being but you
just haven’t yet
woken up?

What if:
it all doesn’t matter
quite so much because
anyway life is just
a dream you’re having?

What if:
the dream you’re
dreaming is simply
the universe dreaming
the gazillion stars into
being through you?

What if:
the river of stars
that constantly flows
through you is
endlessly content
with how it’s doing?

Could this then
be enough?

Seeing Into the Darkness

This time of year, we Zen Buddhists, like the followers of most wisdom traditions are concerned with darkness and light. We tell the story of a young man who left the comfort of his familiar surroundings to set off on a pilgrimage to find the meaning of life-and-death. After a long and arduous search, he settled into the darkness of one tumultuous night, vowing not to move until he understood the truth of life. Seeing the morning star rising the next morning, he had a great realization of the nature of life and was set free.

Every pilgrimage begins with leaving home. Even the virtual Zen Zoom retreats we’ve been holding since May, the ones that take place right where we are, require a leaving of the familiar routine. We intentionally step back from the normal flow of ‘the way things are’ in order to begin to see into the conditions of our lives that are mostly hidden from us.

We humans are like the young fish that David Foster Wallace described in his commencement address at Kenyan College in 2005:

There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys, how’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What the hell is water?”

The title of Wallace’s address that day was ‘This Is Water’ and these are his opening lines.   Wallace goes on to present himself not as the wise old fish offering platitudes for to the young graduates, but rather he boldly claims his status as a deluded human being:

A huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded. Here’s one example of the utter wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of: Everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe, the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely talk about this sort of natural, basic self centeredness, because it’s so socially repulsive, but it’s pretty much the same for all of us, deep down. It is our default-setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth. Think about it: There is no experience you’ve had that you were not at the absolute center of.

As Wallace points out in the joke and elucidates here, we live in midst of delusions that are so close they are invisible to us. Zen retreats offer us the possibility to see into the nature of the mistaken ideas of separation and inflation that we barely notice in our everyday lives. All spiritual practices and retreats offer the possibility of de-centering the self and seeing though our deluded ideas of importance and control.

Another example of ‘the utter wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of’ is our equation that comfort is good and discomfort is bad—the easy is to be preferred and the difficult is to be avoided. Our basic urge is to control the universe and get more of what we want and less of what we don’t want. While this is healthy to some extent, when this is the unconscious driving force of our lives, we are in trouble. We are neither the center of nor the master of the universe. This is the bad news and the good news.

Leaving familiar surroundings and engaging in spiritual practices can allow us to begin to see the operation of these and other hidden delusions that keep us scurrying around on a desperate search for happiness. On Zen retreats, the discipline of sitting upright and still for long periods of time allows us to come face-to-face with our urge to control the universe. We human beings naturally turn away from things we don’t like and toward things we do like. Though this is basically a healthy impulses, when all we do is turn toward comfort and away from difficulty, our lives become smaller and smaller. Our natural freedom to follow what we love is eroded by our need for safety and security.

Simply sitting still allows us to see the operation of this endless desire for comfort and allows us to cultivate the courage to choose for ourselves. When the urge to scratch my cheek arises, though I may feel like I really need to scratch, if I resist that urge, I can begin to learn that sensations come and go. The same with discomfort in the body. While we need to be wise and not go to extremes that would injure our bodies, there is a fair degree of aches and pains that we can merely watch arise and pass away.

We can begin to greet the urgencies of our minds—‘I must do this.’ ‘I must have that.’ ‘I cannot tolerate this.’—with a little more spaciousness. Our minds, in many ways, are like two-year-olds that just want what they want when they want it. ‘If I can’t have that new toy, there is no meaning to my life.’ ‘If you won’t do exactly what I want, I won’t ever talk to you again.’ Though we can laugh at these silly examples, on some primal level the delusion runs deep. Of course we see clearly and are reasonable and should always get our way. Only when we begin to see how subtly greed, anger and ignorance operate, can we begin to awaken to our true freedom.

It’s a never-ending path, this road to freedom. The little self is wondrously persistent and creative. Though we all have moments where we see through the thin façade of rushing around trying to get and be particular things, we are all endlessly limited and deluded.

Going on retreat, we have to come back. Climbing to the top of the mountain, we get a wonderful view, but then, as we keep walking, we naturally walk down the other side and back into the valleys and forests of everyday life. This is not a problem or a mistake. Everything comes and goes, even our great liberating insight.

This is the water we swim in, the water that is our life.  This is why we keep practicing—keep meditating—keep praying—keep retreating. This endless journey is our great freedom and our great joy.

Back From Retreat

Zen meditation retreats are an acquired taste.

In the early days of my Zen career I heard Thich Nhat Hanh talk about how meditation retreats are really ‘treats’ to be savored. I had no clue what he was talking about. I knew that ‘real’ Zen retreats were arduous affairs requiring intense effort and were only for truly devoted spiritual seekers. Calling them ‘treats’ was like saying that running a marathon is a stroll in the park or a three-week Outward Bound course is a pleasant afternoon in the forest. But now, almost forty years later, I’m beginning to understand what he meant.

The long hours of sitting in stillness and silence, the sense of camaraderie (even over Zoom) allow me to touch something of incomparable value. Studying and practicing the teachings of life in the company of friends and colleagues is one of the great pleasures of my life. A real treat each time. But like learning to appreciate a fine wine, I have had to learn how to savor the many flavors—the bitterness that balances the sweetness—the darkness that allows the light.

Zen meditation retreats are indeed a treat, but are not recommended for the faint of heart.

I suppose it’s like learning to appreciate life. While it’s easy to enjoy the ‘good stuff’ like success, connection and energetic activity, how do we find a way to meet the inevitable arising of failure, loneliness and illness as well? The Buddha suggested that one way to encounter these mostly unwanted experiences of being human was to begin by remembering that they are unavoidable.

Usually, when something ‘bad’ happens, not only do I feel bad, but I think there must be something wrong with me for feeling bad. One of the Buddha’s first teachings was the prosaic observation that, in human life, suffering and discomfort are unavoidable. While this may seem obvious, in practice it is very difficult to remember.

One of the gifts of retreat is that in the simplicity of stillness and silence, we can see how difficulty and ease arise and pass away continuously. With very little going on in the environment around us, the activity of the mind becomes a little more transparent. We can begin to see that the difficulties and the accomplishments we take so seriously do not have the substance that we usually accord them.

When difficulty arises, perhaps discomfort in the body, I can see how naturally and immediately I add to the discomfort with my internal complaining. ‘It shouldn’t be this way.’ ‘Oh no, not this again.’ I can try to stop my complaining, but this rarely works. Or I can accept my internal complaining as a naturally arising phenomena and see that, if I just let it be, the complaint, like the experience of discomfort simply arises and passes away. When I don’t add more suffering on top of my suffering, then I can find the ease that is possible even when I am ill at ease.

This might be what Jesus was referring to when he spoke of ‘the peace that passes understanding’—a peace or ease that is not conditional on good circumstances but peace is broad enough to include all circumstances.

When we don’t have to judge ourselves or our experiences, then we can begin to appreciate our lives in their fullness. We don’t have to expend so much energy trying to avoid the unavoidable. We can be at peace in the midst of turmoil. We can rest right where we are. Of course we still prefer some experiences to other experiences, but we don’t have to get so worked up about the continual changes in circumstance and mood that are a natural part of being human.

So, this morning, after our three-day Rohatsu Boundless Way Zen Distant Temple Bell retreat, I am grateful for this ancient practice, for my colleagues and students who are willing to journey with me, and for the precious gift being alive.

Looking Into Life-and-Death

Tonight we begin our fourth non-local Zen retreat here at Boundless Way Temple. In ‘the before-days’ our retreats meant a wonderful influx of human beings into the Temple and any number of days of hushed and vibrant activity. Now it means gathering ourselves where we are and practicing together from a distance. It’s surprisingly powerful and intimate as we weave meditation into the rhythms of our everyday lives. Together from a distance, we support each other to set aside several days of our lives to look into the great matter of life-and-death.

This being human is not a picnic. Or it is a picnic, but the weather is wildly unsettled. Sometimes the sun shines, the breezes are fair and the food is delicious. Sometimes a storm blows in and cold rain drenches us and ruins our ideas of a pleasant outing. However we turn the image, the reality of our lives often refuses to conform to our wishes and desires. For most of us, the reality that we are not in control of the universe is quite disturbing.

But, when we begin to accept the truth of our real position in the universe, we can finally find some place to rest. Recently, one student reported what a relief it was to notice that she was not in charge of breathing her breath. Breathing out and waiting, she noticed that the in-breath came on it’s own. Breathing in, that the out-breath as well needed no instruction. The intelligence of the mind-body is stunningly brilliant. But usually we’re too busy with our schemes and worries to notice the natural wisdom that courses through every cell and every molecule of our being.

Sometimes it’s easier to appreciate this primal intelligence in other life forms. Personally, I’ve always admired the gray whales that migrate up and down the west coast—a 12,000 mile round trip which they make at the leisurely and determined pace of five miles per hour. How do they know where to do? How do they keep going? After spending the summer feeding in the nutrient rich Arctic waters off the coast of Alaska, they swim the length of the North American continent to have their babies in the warm lagoons of Baja, Mexico. During their annual pilgrimage, they even swim while they are sleeping! (Warning: do not try this at home.)

And consider the knowing of the trees that have now dropped their leaves and wait without complaint or fear for the coming cold. The tilted earth that predictably spins as it hurtles around our dependably exploding sun. The sound of traffic, the smell of moist air, the taste of our food and drink—all this is a manifestation of the intelligence of life. We were exactly created for this world. Or, it might be more accurate to talk about our lives as the marvelous meeting between us and what is not-us.

Many vibrations come into my ear, but I only call sound that which resonates with the structure of my body-mind. We live in the world perception that our mind-bodies co-create. Everywhere I turn my attention, I perceive something. Even blankness or darkness – even absence is a perception, is a something.

In the midst of this mutually arising world, we human beings have the fore-knowledge of the future that awaits us. We will, each one of us, die. Being human is like setting out to sea in a boat that you know will sink. No one in their right mind would do that. But here we are. Zen meditation and perhaps all spiritual paths and religion arise in response to this human conundrum.

In Zen, we call this the great matter of life-and-death. For the next three days, three dozen or so of us will be studying this matter—not as an intellectual investigation, but through being present with our own experience. We say that it’s all happening right here—this life-and-death is not some philosophical abstraction, but rather is the experience of breathing in and breathing out. Each moment contains our life—is our life. And this life can never be separated from our death—hence we call it life-and-death.

Such a mystery and such an invitation to briefly abandon the myriad concerns that usually occupy our minds—to step back from our consuming busyness and consider the whole enchilada. ‘Who am I?’ ‘Why am I here?’ and, with a bow to Mary Oliver, ‘What do I intend to do with this one wild and precious life?’

(Note to regular readers: I may be sporadic over the days of the retreat but will definitely be back on Monday.)